


let me give you my life

by sarahyyy



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Light Angst, M/M, presidential au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 22:39:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3398816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahyyy/pseuds/sarahyyy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras scrubs a hand over his face. He is tired, so tired of this job, so tired of constantly <i>trying</i>, so tired of never being able to hold on to the good things in his life, so tired of bringing everyone trouble just because they are associated with him. </p><p><i>Is it really worth it?</i> he wants to ask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let me give you my life

Bahorel comes back alone.

Enjolras swallows. “Is he okay, at least?”

Bahorel shakes his head. “I’m not in the position to make any kind of assumptions, but if I had to guess, I would say no, he isn’t okay,” he says. 

Enjolras scrubs a hand over his face. He is tired, so tired of this job, so tired of constantly _trying_ , so tired of never being able to hold on to the good things in his life, so tired of bringing everyone trouble just because they are associated with him. 

_Is it really worth it?_ he wants to ask. 

“Place a few men outside his apartment building,” he ends up saying instead. “I want him to be safe. Be discrete about it.” 

Bahorel nods. “May I speak freely, Mr. President?” 

“Always,” Enjolras tells him.

“You should go to him, Sir,” Bahorel says quietly. “He won’t make you leave if you go to him. He never does.”

“I don’t want to push him.” His hands are shaking a little from exhaustion when he reaches to slide his glasses off his face. “He doesn’t want to see me.”

“You should go to him,” Bahorel repeats, firmer this time. “This is when he needs you the most, even if he says he doesn’t want to see you. He’s scared and he won’t say it, but he needs you. If he means anything to you at all-” Bahorel trails off, as if realising that he’s forgotten his place. “You should go to him, Sir.”

Bahorel is right, on all counts. Grantaire must be so scared right now, but he hasn’t once texted Enjolras since he was brought back. He does that sometimes, tries to keep things to himself because he doesn’t want to bother Enjolras, and Enjolras should go to him, _he wants to go to him_ , but he can’t shake off his guilt, can’t stop thinking that he’s the reason why Grantaire was taken in the first place, can’t stop thinking that maybe Grantaire blames him for it just as much as he’s blaming himself too. 

He thinks about the ransom video, thinks about how pale and haggard Grantaire had looked, thinks about how he’d cried and pleaded for Enjolras not to do anything they said even though they were holding a gun to his head. 

He hasn’t been able to sleep without seeing that image in his head. He wonders what Grantaire dreams about when he goes to sleep at night now. 

He closes his eyes, nods, and says, “Prep the car.”

—

He doesn’t use his key when he gets to Grantaire’s apartment. He knocks instead, but whereas it normally takes Grantaire next to no time to answer the door with a cheery smile and a kiss to his cheek, there is no answer. 

“Grantaire,” he calls out. “R, it’s me, open the door.”

There is a faint shuffling from behind the door. A bolt clicks open. And then another. Three. Four. Five. 

Enjolras’ chest tightens painfully. He curls his fingers into fists, digs his nails into his palms to stop himself from doing anything rash, and watches as the doorknob turns slowly and the door opens. 

Grantaire looks- 

“Fuck,” Enjolras curses, and steps into Grantaire’s apartment, closing the door behind him. He curls his hand over the curve of Grantaire’s cheek, thumbs over the bruise there. Combeferre’d lied to him and told him that Grantaire wasn’t hurt. “ _Grantaire_.” 

Grantaire doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and then he lets out a sob and pulls Enjolras closer to him, pressing his face into the crook of Enjolras’ neck. 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras murmurs, clutching tightly at Grantaire. “Fuck, R, I was so worried. If anything had happened to you, I don’t know what I would’ve done. You’re safe now, I promise. I won’t let anything happen to you again, you’re safe now.” Grantaire shakes in his arms, and he tries to pull him in closer. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, this is all my fault,” he whispers, pressing his lips to Grantaire’s hair.

He holds Grantaire until he stops shaking, and then sits him down on the couch and wraps his arms back around Grantaire. “Did they hurt you?” he asks softly, brushing the tip of his fingers softly over the bruise on Grantaire’s face again, dreading the answer. He’s terrible in his rage, and he knows that if Grantaire has been hurt, he’ll want to do something in retaliation, just on instinct. 

Grantaire shakes his head. “They realised pretty early on that threatening me with pain wouldn’t make me cooperate,” Grantaire tells him. His grip tightens on Enjolras when he says, “They said that they would find a way to hurt you if I didn’t leave with them. But I didn’t tell them anything, I promise I didn’t.” 

“I wouldn’t care if you did,” Enjolras breathes out, harsh, and it’s not a lie, not exactly. 

He reaches down to take one of Grantaire’s hand in his, tangles their fingers together messily, and tries to brush his thumb over Grantaire’s pulse point on his wrist but feels the rough fabric of bandages instead. 

Grantaire hastily pulls his hand away. “It’s nothing,” he tells Enjolras, preempting Enjolras’ question. 

“You’re hurt,” Enjolras says. “Please- Let me, please.”

When Enjolras reaches out for Grantaire’s hand again, he doesn’t pull away, just turns his gaze away from Enjolras. Enjolras pushes the sleeve of Grantaire’s green pullover up and slowly unravels the bandages on Grantaire’s wrist. 

Enjolras swallows past the lump in his throat when he sees the cuts. They’re deep, but mostly healed over. “Who did this?” he asks, voice hoarse. He thinks he might be shaking a little — from fear or anger, he doesn’t really know.

“I did it to myself,” Grantaire tells him, voice small, still not looking at him. “I didn’t want them to- You would’ve had to make a choice between the nation and me, and I didn’t want to put you in that position. You’re the president, you can’t negotiate with terrorist, and you would’ve never forgiven yourself if you had to neutralise me. So I thought that if I could- If I just-” He shakes his head. “They caught me, bandaged me up, and started handcuffing me so I wouldn’t try anything funny.” 

“Look at me, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire turns his gaze back onto Enjolras. “I want you to promise that you’ll never hurt yourself again, not for me, not for anyone. _Never again_.”

Grantaire nods, tears spilling over. 

“Promise me,” Enjolras says, _begs_. “Never again.”

“Never again,” Grantaire repeats, and burrows into Enjolras’ chest, clutching tightly at his shirt. “I was so scared, Enjolras, I thought I’d never see you again.”

Enjolras holds him close and whispers soothing words into his hair until his cries die down and his breathing evens out. 

He knows that the right thing to do would be to break things off with Grantaire, because Grantaire didn’t sign up for this, didn’t sign up for his life constantly being in the limelight, or for his life to be in danger, just because he’s the president’s boyfriend.

But Grantaire’s fingers tighten where they’re curled into Enjolras’ shirt, and he nuzzles closer to Enjolras, and Enjolras is once again hit with how much he loves Grantaire, and how much it would hurt to have to let him go. He lets his gaze trail over the healing bruise on Grantaire’s cheek again, and thinks that it would be better for him to be the one hurting, instead of Grantaire being constantly in danger.

He will do it tomorrow, will talk to Grantaire, will make sure Grantaire understands. He’ll do it all tomorrow. 

But for now, he holds onto Grantaire, closes his eyes, and finds that sleep comes easily to him for the first time in three weeks.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [here on Tumblr](http://sarah-yyy.tumblr.com), come say hi!


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